


Per Aspera

by TheBiFromUNCLE



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Recovery, Requited Love, Sex, Tarsus IV, and they were ROOMMATES, fingering but like emotional, jim has issues with food, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBiFromUNCLE/pseuds/TheBiFromUNCLE
Summary: The apartment was two bed, one bath, fully furnished. It felt like a show room. Someone had packed up his few belongings from his quarters and had attempted to decorate. The few physical books he owned only took up a shelf and a half of the bookcase. He liked that. It felt impersonal. Temporary.





	Per Aspera

Jim had gotten hurt. So what else was new? Except it was bad this time. Bad as in Bones didn’t call him a moron when he woke up in the sickbay. Bad as in grounded indefinitely. Bad as he didn’t complain when he was told he had to have someone stay with him while he recuperated. Spock was the logical choice. Reliable, even-headed. Besides, everyone else bar Bones had bolted as soon as they had docked. Uhura had taken a temporary admin job within Starfleet. It was beneath her but translating treaties meeting minutes was exactly the kind of mindless work she wanted. Scotty was overseeing repairs. Chekov and Sulu had filed separately for extended leave, but had left together.

Bones though, Bones had argued and fought and swore and demanded to be Jim’s carer. He was told in no uncertain terms that this would not be allowed. He had been about to tender his resignation when Jim said, quietly, from the sickbay bed ‘Just do what they say Bones’. Later Jim would be able to convince himself that he had imagined the way Bones’ shoulders had slumped, the way he seemed to collapse in on himself. Hallucinating, on account of all the drugs they’d (Bones) been pumping into him to keep him alive. So Bones left too and Jim was sad to see him go, but in a deep, shameful part of himself he was also relieved. Looking at Bones’ face was like staring at an open wound, seeing his own misery and brokenness reflected back at him.

‘Perhaps I would be better suited?’

Spock’s cool, clinical manner directly after McCoy’s outburst made him seem the ideal candidate.

Jim sat quietly in a wheelchair while Spock received instructions for his care, occasionally asking questions, his voice never dipping below bland neutrality. If Bones was here he’d be furrowing his brow and fretting over Jim’s stillness. No doing wheelies up and down the hall, hell the fact that he had acquiesced to the wheelchair protocol at all. So often Jim had longed for that Vulcan composure to break, and had just as often ruminated over the time he had shattered it himself. Now he was grateful for that carefully impassive face. He knew that if he watched carefully he’d be able to divine Spock’s true mood but right now, even if he had been able to summon the focus, he didn’t want to.

The apartment was two bed, one bath, fully furnished. It felt like a show room. Someone had packed up his few belongings from his quarters and had attempted to decorate. The few physical books he owned only took up a shelf and a half of the bookcase. He liked that. It felt impersonal. Temporary.

Spock kept the apartment hot. Jim didn’t mind. Even with a vest, a Henley and a flannel shirt on, he felt a bone deep chill most days, and was usually reaching for a hoodie by noon. Spock usually wore a black t-shirt while he ate his breakfast before pulling a sweater over it for the rest of the day. Jim liked the days he wore the moss-green cardigan. It was a chunky knit and too big on Spock so it often slipped off his shoulder.

‘Breakfast’ and ‘noon’ were fluid concepts now. Jim slept fitfully, maybe three hours at a time if he was lucky. There was no regiment. He snatched sleep when he could. He might wake at nine am and decide the day was a bust and retreat back to bed by ten. He felt like a Jim-shaped puppet, limbs awkward and heavy. He didn’t move so much as reposition himself, with much thought and effort. The delay between command and action often took so long that he generally gave up and would sit in one place for hours. Only the cold, the feeling of the blood slowing in his veins, would eventually persuade him to move. Spock showed no sign of fatigue. He meditated while Jim slept and an hour or so of real sleep a day seemed to leave him fully refreshed. Invariably, If Jim was awake, so was Spock. Day and night meant little, but they were both used to that, after so many years sailing through that perpetual night. Spock didn’t hover, didn’t follow Jim on his aimless migrations from room to room, which was nice. It was also nice knowing he was never more than a room away. He kept himself preoccupied answering correspondence and reading. Jim thought he might be working on a paper.

Jim woke at three in morning and knew from the alertness he felt as he opened his eyes that this was it and he was awake, for the next few hours at least. He went to the living room and picked a book to read, like he used to do when he couldn’t sleep on the Enterprise. Bones had rolled his eyes at Jim’s fondness for hardcopy books and called him a romantic. His tone had indicated that this was the gravest possible insult.

The book was one of his favourites but now the words were slippery on the page. They slid past his eyes without meaning. Jim threw the book away with a grunt of wordless frustration and it smacked against the wall. He felt slightly ashamed when Spock emerged from his room and picked it up. Without comment, Spock sat beside him on the couch and began to read.

‘ _The king stood in a pool of blue light, unmoored’_.

Jim thought of protesting, that he wasn’t a child in need of a bedtime story but Spock’s voice, low and steady, brooked no argument. Jim pulled his bare feet up from the floor. When they were still cold, he stretched out, pushing his toes under Spock’s thigh. Testing. There was no stumbled or pause in his reading but his eyebrow did quirk up. Jim closed his eyes and listened, his feet beneath Spock’s thighs. He pretended to himself that it was the warmth he wanted, not the closeness.

Spock went barefoot in the apartment, his black boots left neatly at the door. Upon noticing this, Jim realised he had never seen Spock’s feet before and felt unbalanced by it. How could you spend so much time with someone, years, in such close quarters and not know what their damn feet looked like? Jim looked at them now. Spock sat on a high stool at the counter, sipping his tea. His legs were crossed, feet pointed elegantly. They were long and slender, with a greenish tinge about the toenails. Such an ordinary thing, to call it intimacy felt absurd, but Jim didn’t know what other name to give the ache in his chest.

‘Dancer’s feet’, he said.

‘Pardon?’Spock looked up, carefully not belying his surprise.

‘You have them’. Jim frowned, annoyed that Spock wasn’t getting it. By the rasp in his throat he guessed it had been a few days since he had last spoken.

‘It’s when your second toe is longer than your big toe. ‘Spose to mean you’re good at ballet. Easier to balance on point’ he finished, hating himself for trying to say anything.

‘Oh?’ Spock looked down and flexed his foot. ‘I cannot confirm if that is factual. I have never danced ballet’.

Jim sagged. He hadn’t been sure himself what he had been trying to say but had hoped that Spock would catch his meaning and explain it back to him. Pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders, he rose from the couch and made his way back to bed. He knew he wouldn’t sleep but he would be alone and warmer under the duvet. He burrowed under the covers and found a hot water bottle, placed there by Spock.

On a Wednesday, Jim woke to voices coming from the living room. He lay unmoving, eyes fixed on the wall. When he kept very still like this he could feel his pulse in his neck, just below his ear. He stayed like that for over an hour, focused on keeping his breathing steady and regular. Eventually, Jim heard muffled farewells and closed his eyes when the bedroom door opened.

‘They have left Jim. There is soup on the stove if you are hungry’.

There was a bouquet in a vase on the kitchen table. Large, golden blooms, that smelled of honey. Jim remembered complimenting them once while visiting Sulu’s personal hot-house. His own experimental crossbreed, as yet unnamed.

It was about two weeks into living in the apartment that Jim looked at himself properly in the mirror. His stubble wasn’t stubble anymore, but in that horrible patchy, in between stage. He was quite pleased with how shaving went, only a nick or two more than usual. He had never been perfect at it, no one had ever taught him, and he could be forgiven some shaky hands and lack of practise. As he washed away the last of the foam with a splash of water, Jim was excited to see someone he recognised. He stepped back to appraise his work. With the facial hair gone, there was nothing to hide how gaunt his cheeks had become. His eyes looked sleepless and sunken and his skin was dry, papery. He had deliberately avoided examining his body as he dressed; not wanting to see what six weeks in bed on a drip had done to him. Now the reality of his convalescence stared back at him.

He looked like an old man.

He looked fourteen again.

Jim went to the kitchen and began pulling food from the cupboards and the fridge. He tore a loaf of bread in half and ate it with his hands, washing it down with half a carton of milk. He felt his stomach protest immediately. He was being weaned back onto solid foods, mostly soup and recently mashed potato had been added to the menu. Baby food. This food was all for Spock. He bit into a block of cheese and reached for a jar of peanut butter. Spock was meditating in his room and by the time he became aware of what was happening, Jim was already vomiting into the sink.

A postcard from Georgia, addressed to the both of them. Their names were sharp and jagged, the hand holding the pen pressing down heavily. The following inscription (‘Hope you’re well. See you soon’) was the more familiar, rounded scrawl and Jim guessed that it had been written hours, maybe days later.

The worst day was actually when things were starting to get a bit better. Jim wasn’t entirely sure what happened. He’d been taking a shower and slipped. Or the heat had overwhelmed him and he’d taken a dizzy spell. Either way, his legs had gone out from under him and he had landed on the floor of the tub, hard.

‘Jim? Are you alright?’ Spock called from the other side of the door.

‘M fine. Just slipped’. Jim swore as the door opened.

‘Go away Spock, I’m fine!’

‘Can you stand?’

‘Yes!’Jim attempted to do so but his entire right side ached in protest.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he yelped as Spock pulled back the curtain. ‘Throw me a fucking towel at least’. Spock allowed Jim to protect his modesty as best as he could before pulling Jim’s arm around his shoulder and helping him to his feet. Then he sat Jim on the toilet lid and began filling them bath. Jim watched, in pain and feeling ridiculous, clutching the towel around his waist. He hadn’t even had time to rinse his hair and now suds slid down his neck. The bathroom was still full of steam but he was beginning to shiver. Spock rolled up his sleeves to the elbow, revealing the dark hair of his forearms. He hadn’t even turned off the shower before lifting Jim and was not almost entirely soaked. He reached out to Jim and gripped his arm, lowering him back into the tub. Spock averted his gaze when Jim cast aside the towel.

‘Thanks’, Jim started to say, but then Spock knelt beside the tub and reached for the shampoo.

‘You don’t need to do this’. He had meant to sound sharp but it came out tired. Sad. He bowed his head.

‘Jim’. He didn’t lift his head.

‘Jim’, Spock said again, softer. ‘Let me help’.

Jim had often thought about Spock’s hands, about Spock touching him. Fisted in his hair, pulling his head back and exposing his neck. Dreams of those hands around his neck. He’d wake up gasping, his own hand immediately going to his leaking cock. He had never alone himself to imagine being touched like this, not by Spock. His long fingers massaged Jim’s scalp, working up lather. Spock, who hated getting wet, here now in his soaking jumper with his bare forearms and his bare feet and-

‘Get off me!’ Jim shoved him away, knocking Spock back on his haunches. Even with a clean bill of health, Jim wouldn’t have been able to get the Vulcan to budge. He felt a wash of guilt, realising how much Spock must have relaxed his guard. As typical though, whatever shock he might have felt was schooled away.

‘Jim, what’s wrong? Have I hurt you?’

‘Yes! Yes, you hurt me every goddamn day, since the day I’ve met you!’

‘Jim, I-‘

‘Shut up! Stop saying my name, stop feeding me, stop fucking _bathing_ me!’ Jim smacked his arm against the water, splashing it everywhere, aware of how childish his tantrum was.

‘I can’t stand it. You being so close every day and taking care of me and this- this- this fucking domestic little life we have together. It’s just too much, every day I have walk though everything I want and everything that I can’t have. And it’s my fucking fault!’ he was crying now, in the way he hadn’t let himself cry since he was fourteen.

‘I should have said no or asked for someone else, but I was sick and weak and scared and I wanted you near me. I wanted _you’._ Jim rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘I’ve always wanted you’.

Spock reached out and encircled Jim’s wrists, gently pulling his hands away from his face.

‘When you were in the hospital Jim, I was afraid. Vulcans do not fear death. It is the natural conclusion of the life cycle. However, I feared the life I would lead. A life marred by your absence. I feared knowing that you died without knowing how I felt’. Spock spoke so matter-of-factly, he might have been giving an analysis report. His eyes and the way they shone betrayed him.

‘Because I do feel for you Jim’, he went on. ‘Deeply. Vulcans do not entertain such emotions lightly and when I gave into them, I did so knowing that I could never expect to be more than your first office, and your friend. And still I did so happily, if it meant being by your side, always’. Spock released Jim’s hands and slid his own until they were palm to palm.

‘There will only ever be you for me’.

The noise Jim made was a hacking mix between a laugh and a sob and was thoroughly unattractive. By the way the corner of his mouth twitched, Spock didn’t seem to mind.

‘Now let me finishing washing your hair. The water is getting cold’.

Spock changed into dry clothes while Jim got out of the bath and the two hesitated slightly when they met in the living room. Jim gave a small smile before taking Spock by the hand and leading him to his bed. It felt sweetly domestic, watching Spock pull back the covers and climb in beside him. He rolled onto his side to face Jim, who mirrored him.

‘Are you warm enough?’ Jim shrugged.

‘Could be warmer’. Unfortunately, this was true. Confessions of love had not healed him of all ailments, and since leaving the bath, the cold had begun to leach back into his limbs. It wasn’t all bad though. Jim shuffled closer, until they were nose to nose. Spock looped an arm around his waist. They lay like that for a while, Spock’s arm warm and heavy on him. An ideal circumstance in which to fall asleep.

‘Spock?’

‘Yes Jim?’

‘Were you ever going to say anything? I mean, you just said you were terrified of me dying without knowing but we’ve been living together for a month and-’ the words came all in a rush and then stumbled as Jim finished lamely ‘You never said anything’.

‘Seven weeks’

‘What?’

Spock sighed heavily. ‘We have been cohabiting for seven weeks Jim. You have not been in full possession of your faculties. I feared that any confession on my part would be inadvertent coercion of you during your vulnerable state. Or worse, impeded your recovery’.

Jim squirmed. Logically, he knew he hadn’t been himself and that it was visible to others. It was why he had avoided visitors, not wanting them to see how he had changed, not wanting to see the shock and pity in their eyes.

Spock loosened his arm, thinking Jim now desired space, and rolled onto his back. Jim followed quickly, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his head on Spock’s chest. The missing heartbeat was strange but even through the t-shirt, his skin was warm against Jim’s cheek. He flattened his hand and felt the beat against his palm.

‘So what changed?’

‘During your....outburst’. Jim could feel the rumble of Spock’s words in his chest. ‘Your eyes no longer appeared so vacant’. Spock paused, struggling with such metaphorical speech. Jim pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw in encouragement. He would realise later t that that was the first time he put his mouth on Spock.

‘It felt like you had awoken. Like you had come back to me’. Spock’s voice had the slightest of tremors.

Jim pushed himself up on his elbows. Spock looked up at him through dark eyelashes and Jim suddenly felt so damn protective he could cry. He had never been good at sentimentality and was still smarting with embarrassment from his bathtub outburst. But however difficult he found it, it was a hundred times harder for Spock. And no good captain would ask of his crew that which he would not do himself. So Jim allowed himself to say what he wanted to say.

‘I guess I’m always gonna find my way back to you’.

Still propped up on his elbows, Jim dipped his head and kissed Spock. It was a sure and sweet kiss and Jim’s head crackled with the thrill of _firstfirstfirstfirstfirst._ Spock’s arms encircled him but it was only when Spock opened his mouth against his that Jim allowed himself to sink down into the bed, into the kiss.

Spock’s tongue was surprisingly rough, and dry, not unlike that of a cat’s. Jim smiled against the kiss and could have sworn that there, in the darkness, he felt Spock smile back.

He woke to a fingertip tracing the shell of his ear.

‘I think it would be beneficial if we went for a walk’, Spock announced.

Jim tried not to seem too eager in his compliance. They had spent the last two days cuddled in bed. They spent much of it talking, but just as much in silence. Reading together. Sleeping. Kissing. Before what had happened, happened, Jim had begun to feel stir crazy and though he knew there was nothing to stop him walking out the front door, the thought of going alone made him nervous. He was eager to go now, with a companion.

It was spring, bright and mild, but they both wrapped up in hats and scarves. The typical San Francisco chill was sharper to them both. Hills that Jim would have easily sprinted up before now left him breathless. But that was ok. They weren’t in a rush. Spock linked their arms as the crossed the street and Jim stumbled on the curb because he was beaming up at him instead of watching where he was going.

‘So is this a date?’ Jim asked, blowing on the slice of pizza Spock had bought him.

‘Yes, I suppose it is’, Spock said wrinkling his nose at his own slice. (‘Of course it’s gross, it’s got that fake vegan cheese, you might as well have got something out of the replicator’). He looked up. ‘I would like it to be’.

‘The first of many’ Jim extended his hand. Spock blinked in surprise before reaching out and pressing his fingertips against Jim’s.

‘How is everyone?’ Walking home now, Jim kept his eyes carefully ahead.

‘They are very well. Concerned for you. They ask after your wellbeing often’. Jim felt a twinge of guilt at that.

‘I’ve been shitty to them lately. I mean, it happened to them too. I should have been there for them instead of shutting myself away’.

‘They are concerned Jim, but they are also understanding of your need to recuperate’.

Jim allowed himself a rueful smile. ‘They’re pretty great, aren’t they?’

‘Indeed Captain. You are most fortunate to have such a loyal crew’.

‘Oh yeah? Handsome too’.

‘I don’t doubt your judgement’.

‘I should call Bones’, Jim sighed.

‘I believe he would appreciate that. We have been in regular contact so that I may keep him up to date on your condition but I believe he is beginning to find me tiresome’.

‘You? Never’

Spock began choking on his pizza and Jim allowed him the dignity of pretending it had been a cough and not a laugh.

They went on walks every day after that. The colour came back to Jim’s face and his clothes started to fit better. Sleep came easier and stayed longer. Spock attributed all this to regular exercise and the reintroduction of solid food into his diet. Jim privately believed that it was Spock’s affection that caused him to flourish. Jim was actually surprised, but pleased; with how often Spock initiated contact. His hand on Jim’s shoulder as they prepared dinner together. On the small of his back as they crossed the street. And kissing. Spock kissed him frequently and deeply.

With every touch he felt like he was coming back to his body, back to himself. Every touch felt like a call to come home.

He still woke in the night, at least once or twice, but Jim’s bed was warmer with Spock in it and that made falling back asleep much easier. Despite the return of a somewhat normal sleep schedule, they rarely rose before noon. Spock often worked on his PADD while Jim made a sincere effort to be as little of a distraction as possible. He could spend an hour tracing his fingers up and down Spock’s forearm. Sometimes he read. Jim had been delighted to find his ability to focus on a page and process the words returning and he practised eagerly, reading every day. Returning to reading was like diving into a deep, cool pool after wandering in the desert. Despite his enjoyment he still found himself taking the PADD from Spock’s hands and replacing it with a paperback. This would be met with a characteristic quirk of an eyebrow but no arguments. Spock reading aloud had become a most soothing routine and one Jim was reluctant to relinquish.

_‘A wash of violent colour, pink and streaks of brilliant orange, the container ships on the horizon suspended between the blaze of the sky and the water aflame-‘_

The San Francisco fog pressed against the window and Jim pressed closer into Spock’s side.

They returned to their apartment one evening with the setting sun. Jim skipped up the stoop taking two steps at a time. He only realised he had done so when he reached front door. He spun around to see Spock looking up at him from the bottom step. Jim threw his arms up, half in mock-triumph, half out of an actually feeling of accomplishment. On joining him, Spock took his hand and laced their fingers.

Inside, Spock’s arms encircled Jim from behind as soon as he had taken off his coat. He tilted his head back against Spock shoulder, letting him kiss and nip at his neck.

‘You know, ah- you’re a lot more demonstrative than I thought you’d be’.

‘Indeed?’ Spock’s voice was deep, almost a purr. ‘Have you thought about me often?’

‘Ahh, yes!’ Jim gasped. ‘Every night almost’.

‘I have wanted....’ Spock’s arms tightened, pulling Jim flush against his chest. Jim squirmed in his arms, testing his strength but not wanting to escape.

‘What did you want? Tell me’

‘To be close. To touch you’. Jim groaned. ‘To taste you’.

He pulled away and broke free of Spock’s arms, immediately taking both his hands.

‘I’ve wanted too’. He pressed a kiss to Spock’s knuckles, enjoying how it made his eyelids flutter.

‘I’ve wanted you in my arms. I’ve wanted you in my bed’.

Another kiss to the knuckles before he turned Spock’s hand over, palm up and open. Gently, so gently, more a press of his teeth, he bit the fleshy part of the palm, under the thumb.

‘Take me to bed’, he said, laving his tongue against the same spot. He kept eye contact, looking up through his lashes.

‘Make me feel good’.

The way Spock’s breath caught was most gratifying.

It was different than Jim had thought it would be. His fantasies had always been cartoonishly porny. Spock, bending him over and taking him from behind on the bridge. Spock, seated in the captain’s chair and Jim between his legs sucking him off. Spock, seated in the captain’s chair and Jim seated on his cock. That kind of thing. He had never daydreamed about Spock laying him down and slowly, methodically working Jim open with his fingers for the better part of half an hour.

_I’m not made of glass._

_You won’t break me._

He wanted to say those things, but they tasted like lies. So instead he lay back against the pillows and attempted patience as Spock slowly stretched him open. If he could let anyone be gentle with him, it’d be Spock.

Spock had tried to pull the blankets over them, but Jim had insisted the heat of his body next to him was enough to stave off the chill. More than that though, Jim wanted to see. The long limbs, elegant in repose. The line from his jaw, down his neck to the hollow of his clavicle. The dark hair on Spock’s chest and the flush of green beneath it.

Spock lay close at his side, propped up on one arm, the other reaching down between Jim’s legs. He occasionally dipped his head to drop kisses against Jim’s shoulder, his hair the corner of his mouth, but for the most part he watched Jim’s face, quiet and attentive. Before, Jim would have squirmed under such attention. He knew that most people thought of him as a show-off and attention seeker, but what they didn’t know was that it was misdirection. The last time he had truly sought attention was as a child. Mouthing off in school, driving cars off cliffs, begging someone to see the bruises, see what was happening at home when Mom was offworld. And then someone did see and it got him sent away and that was worse. If being ignored stung, then someone looking at you and seeing all the hurt and the misery and deciding it wasn’t worth dealing with, that was agony. And for the first few months on Tarsus IV, Jim was like a wounded animal, half-feral with the pain and the anger, until the hunger drained it all away.

So, after, he became the golden boy, the smart-ass, the ladies man, the youngest captain in Starfleet history. Keep their attention where you want it and they won’t see the slick black rot inside you, the sickness that can’t be cut away. And if sickness can’t be cured, it must be quarantined.

No, contrary to what most may think, Jim hated attention. Until now.

Because of course Spock saw everything. He had observed Jim at his worst, his most cruel, and still he was here, holding Jim and loving him.

‘pock’, he breathed on the exhale, tilting his head. Spock understood and bent to kiss Jim.

Spock was maddeningly careful in his ministrations, his fingertips barely glancing against Jim’s prostate. Sure, that Spock was suitable distracted in the kiss, Jim rolled his hips to meet his fingers on their next inward thrust, desperate for some sensation. Spock broke the kiss and stilled his hand.

‘Behave’, he said, lowly. By the amused quirk of his eyebrow, Spock had clearly meant the admonishment as a teasing joke, not seduction. That did not stop Jim from groaning, or the heat he felt spreading through his belly. Spock seemed equally affected by Jim’s reaction. The faintest green stain bloomed across his cheekbones and his eyes were dark and shiny.

Oh, his eyes. Black, like staring into space. Jim had often heard others complain and avoid the windows on the Enterprise. It was too vast, too cold, too lonely. Jim had never understood that. Where others saw isolation, he saw a million worlds, each bursting with life and potential. And who could feel cold while sailing amidst the light of a million far-off suns?

Many of the same people thought Spock too, was cold and distant. Jim smiled now at such a foolish thought, reaching to cup a hand against Spock’s face. His skin was feverish to the touch and he gasped when Jim traced his thumb over his bottom lip.

‘Please’, he murmured, as Spock pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb. And who was Spock to deny his captain anything? He leaned down and kissed Jim deeply, swallowing his moans as Spock withdrew his fingers.

Jim let his legs fall open further. Spock slotted between his thighs and pushed up on his elbows. Jim flattened his palms against Spock’s shoulders and made gentle petting motions before sliding both hands up into Spock’s hair. He grinned as he ran his hands through the sleek, black hair, letting it slip through his fingers. He pushed it back from Spock’s forehead, then took a gentle fistful and pulled him down into another kiss. He shuddered to feel Spock hard against him and he reached down. Spock was slick and hot and he bucked into Jim’s hand when he stroked him.

‘Ow!’ He also bit Jim’s lip. Hard.

‘Jim, I-’

‘It’s fine, it’s fine!’ Jim laughed, swiping his tongue over his lip. Just –oh god–kiss it better?’ He tried to make a fist around both of their cocks and couldn’t quite manage it. The friction was wonderful however and he arched up against Spock’s body.

Spock kissed him like Jim was something to be savoured. He kissed him like they had all the time in the world and he wanted to spend all of it here, in this bed. It was heated and tender and passionate and wholly without desperation. A desperate man fears that what he has will be ripped from his arms. Spock kissed him with the surety that nothing would ever again keep him from Jim and that they would each have their fill of kisses.

‘Jim, Jim, Jim’, Spock chanted against his lips. ‘I want-’

‘Yes, everything, yes Spock, yes’, Jim panted before capturing his mouth again.

He gasped, breaking the kiss, as he felt Spock’s blunt head press against his hole. Spock was big. Even with all the stretching there was still a burn and Jim had to ask him to stop more than once. Spock groaned, dropping his forehead to Jim’s collar bone when he finally bottomed out. Jim panted, rubbing circles on Spock’s shoulder blades as he adjusted.

‘Ok. Ok you can move’ he said, smiling as he felt Spock kiss his chest. Less a kiss and more dragging his open mouth across Jim’s skin.

Spock thrust slow and deep and steady, wringing moans out of Jim each time.

‘So good Jim’, he muttered against his neck. ‘Want to make it so good for you’.

Jim slid his hands up from Spock’s shoulders to his face, bringing him up for a kiss.

‘Always so good for me Spock’ he panted. ‘Oh Spock, ah-’

Jim tightened his legs around Spock’s waist as his pace quickened. Spock came shouting Jim’s name and went immediately to Jim’s weeping cock. Jim cried out, spurting over Spock’s fingers and his own stomach. Spock stroked him through his orgasm, kissed him through it before collapsing beside him. Spock’s arm was heavy across his chest and he had hooked a leg over both of Jim’s. Jim ran his hand idly over Spock’s forearm, occasionally bringing the hand up to kiss its fingers. He glanced over to find Spock watching him, his expression unspeakably fond. He looked softer. Younger. Jim wondered if he looked different.

Spock made to rise from the bed to get a washcloth but Jim stilled him.

‘Just stay another minute’. Spock fell easily back against the pillows and Jim rolled into his waiting arms.

‘ _He likes the thought of ships moving over the water, towards another world just out of sight’_.

Spock closed the book and turned slightly to nuzzle against Jim’s temple.

‘I see why this is one of your favourites, Ashayam’. Jim hummed sleepily, burrowing his face against Spock’s neck. He liked when they sat like this on couch. If he pressed close enough, he could feel the Vulcan’s heartbeat against his side.

‘Ashayam’, what’s that mean?’ he asked, kissing a spot just below Spock’s ear. He knew what it meant but wanted to hear it nonetheless.

Spock, who knew, who had always known, that Jim was never as dumb as he pretended to be, indulged him.

‘Beloved’, he sighed, his arm curling around Jim’s shoulder. ‘It means ‘Beloved’.

The Enterprise flew silently on, carrying them both through the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I will be dead in the ground before I recognise Into Darkness but also Jim died?? Like, he was fully dead for a bit. That's kind of trauma is too good for me to ignore. So you can read this as post-Into Darkness if you want, or whatever vague traumatic experience your heart desires.
> 
> The book Spock reads from is Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel. If you've read it then hopefully you'll appreciate my little joke, and if not I really recommend it!


End file.
